Learning

April 17, 2012

Went to my first yoga class today since the injury last year and … whoa. The teacher was amazing: not too chatty or new-agey, calm, and as engaged with each student as he or she signalled the need for.

I couldn’t believe how emotional I was … and was surprised by what the actual emotions were. I struggled with poses that used to be easy. I struggled to calm my mind. I struggled to feel okay with struggling and to remind myself that this was a work in progress … that everything is a work in progress. I did not feel joyful. I did not feel proud. I did not feel peaceful. I wondered if I should blow the joint and hit the gym for some cardio. Or find a boxing ring and punch something—inanimate, I hasten to add—into smithereens.

Then the teacher said, “Ask yourself what your relationship is to challenge.”

So of course I cried. And then I couldn’t stop. Quietly, in my little corner, but wet things spilled out of my eyes. I guess that’s crying. And it felt really good. Not good as in happy happy but good as in I needed it. Badly.

From that point on, things got a little easier. When the teacher told us that all we needed to think about was about being here—that that’s all we had to ask of ourselves for the moment—I bought it. Had she said it a half hour earlier, I might have laughed, frazzled as I was by everything I had to do and wasn’t getting done and when am I ever going to do what I need to do and how can I be three things at once and how is any of this okay and when will I ever write and do I still have anything to say …

May 28, 2011

I am that 40-year-old loser in the Larry’s Driving School car. The one driving with the instructor beside her, the one trying to ignore the gleeful teens giving her ironic thumbs-up and catcalling from the sidewalk. The one who never really, desperately needed her license until now, and who now really, desperately does.

To get into this car, I had to endure two heinous bootcamp weekends in a Larry’s Driving School classroom last year listening to a chainsmoking, hungover teacher explain the rules of the road to me alongside a dozen sullen, stinky high-school students (also hungover) and a couple of veteran lawbreakers forced to show up. So I am relatively happy to be the loser in the car because it means I have graduated from being the loser in the classroom, and because my hours in this car may make it possible for me to finally … drive. Legally. Unassisted. Like a big girl. With two kids. Yeesh.

Anyhoo. My mortification is not the intended subject of this post. What is is the salve for it: my Yoda-esque driving instructor, Param. Param, a bearded 70-year-old former helicopter pilot (in his native India) with a pulse rate of about 20, didn’t blink when I ran a stop sign on our first outing, when I threatened to speed through a busy intersection on my second, and when I nearly stole the right-of-way of a motorized wheelchair on a turn just a few days ago. During these episodes he smiles patiently and calls them my “learning,” noting serenely that “knowledge is power.”

Param is a philosopher as much as he is a driving instructor. Driving well, he tells me, is “an effort of body, mind, and soul.” When I point out a tailgater, he says, “This is not your problem. It is not your blood pressure shooting through the roof. You are calm. They are not. This is too bad for them.” He does, however, applaud my desire for greater space between cars. In fact, he says, we need greater space in all things: “When we have space we have time to reflect. We do not act emotionally. We have the distance to act in our best interests.”

To my complaint that it feels like we’re driving like slugs in a residential area (speed limit 40 km/h), Param says, “More time to enjoy yourself and the scenery.” When a car in front of me blocks my way and there's a chance for me to go around him, he wonders, “Do you really care about ten seconds so much? Will it make a difference to your day?”

When I asked Param how he got so Zen, he told me that he was born this way. “My mother asked the doctors to keep checking on me when I was in the hospital because I was so calm she didn’t believe I was really alive.”

Though he may be quiet, Param has lots to say. As you will have gathered, our driving lessons are as much contemplations of life as they are rote lessons about parallel parking and safe following distances. Our last session together is a perfect example.

I was rattled, and Param knew it the minute I dropped into the driver’s seat. It took about half an hour and about five egregious mistakes before I apologized, explaining a little about the stresses on my mind, including my dying cat and the sheer cumulative exhaustion of my year post-spinal-cord-injury avec newborn and toddler. It was a bit heavy for a chat with your typical driving instructor, but Param hardly fits this description. True to form, he came back with a response that required me to intensify my grip on the wheel and my sense of my surroundings, so taken was I with his words.

“None of us escapes in life,” he said. “Every one of us receives a piece of suffering; some more than others, but each one of us nonetheless.”

“Life will have its way with us, and to a certain degree, there is nothing we can do about it,” he continued. “But there is always something within our control. One of the most important things we can do in life is to understand what is in our control and what is not, what power we have to change things. Some people instinctively know this, and others learn it. The unfortunate never do understand this truth and are always in the position of victim.”

Param then gently advised me to get some rest and let up a bit on myself. Then, as he always does, he drew back from his life philosophizing and applied it to the task at hand: driving. To be precise, defensive driving (all drivers have a certain amount of power to protect themselves against others’ mistakes). His segue brought me back to the road—and to the hell task of lane changing—a little less jumpy and fearful.

You never know when you’re going to meet someone extraordinary, or how.

January 14, 2011

Not to get too stereotypical, but book clubs are generally the purview of women. They are sometimes successful but often find these—often contradictory—complaints lodged against them:

Only half the members actually read the books

Half the members are overeager snots and half are annoying ignoramuses

All that ever happens is we drink ourselves drunk and lose the thread

There’s never enough booze to make it fun

I don’t get to talk enough and I’m right and everyone else is a dumbass

If she #@!!% opens her mouth again I’m going to have to shove this breadstick down her gullet

Things like that. From what I’ve heard.

So it’s with great interest that I note the formation of a new book club into which Craig has been inducted: the three-member Book Club for Men established by our friend Raoul. Raoul has, as is tradition when forming a book club, laid down the law for the unique parameters of BCM gatherings:

Book Club For Men will meet semi-regularly at a pub/bar of agreeable taste

BCM will not hold exclusive membership, but those who are jaded, doggishly loyal, or earnest will be discouraged

BCM will not discuss books

Raoul concludes with his fondest aspiration for BCM: “If it works well, maybe we'll end up fighting in alleys. One can only hope.”

It’s an ambitious program, but BCM may just be the radical model we need to shake things up. I’ll be watching. Or at least giving Craig Tylenol when he stumbles in, mysteriously edified.

April 02, 2008

Went to parenting class again last night. This was #4 in the series of seven, and finally, a less earnest, less awfully polite vibe has made its way through the group. We became aware of this welcome change just after being shown the most graphic video yet: strange woman after strange woman moaning and groaning through labour to produce strange babies. When I say strange, I (mostly) mean to say we don't know them, and the intimacy of watching them naked and in pain was fairly uncomfortable.

In any case, this time after the video, no one piped up about how beautiful it was. We were all visibly shaken, and it wasn't just Craig and me who allowed a few nervous giggles. There was some catching-of-eyes and empathetic, silly grimacing, which was lovely, as it prevented another descent into hysteria.

Utter proof of the change in the air came when our teacher broached the subject of placental considerations. That is, she advised us that it might be wise to keep our placentas (as in store in some way ... I'm not sure, I was close to fainting at this point) since there are businesses that can freeze-dry placentas, turn them into powder, and pack them into pills to be ingested by the mother to ward off post-partum depression. Yep, it's a documented cure.

Into the stunned silence and widened eyes came Jenna's response:

"Unless knowing you are eating your own placenta makes you more depressed."

I tell you, we were all spitting up and clutching our sides. It was the deadpan delivery, too.

March 11, 2008

Craig and I went to our inaugural parenting class last night. Things started out hunky dory. We’re next to each other facing a circle of five other couples. In the middle is an exotic collection of candles and fertility ornaments. We drink red raspberry tea to tone our uteri. It is yummy. We present ourselves calmly to the crowd, and talk seriously about the words that have been placed in front of us on cards (“guidance” for me, “patience” for Craig). We are ready for this jelly.

At the end of the introductions, our guide announces it's time to show us the first video in a series that will help us prepare for labour. As she turns on the TV, she gets a box of Kleenex going around the circle. “It’s really beautiful—you’ll probably cry,” she cautions.

Some minor tears around the room. Someone offers, "She made that look so easy."

I am stock still, trying desperately to look unfazed. I can feel Craig peeking over at me to gauge my reaction. I’m in shock: four words threaten to spill screaming from my mouth as I run for the door: “Ceasarian!” “Epidural!” “General anesthetic!”

I chance a glance over at Craig. We begin shaking. Mercifully, breaktime is called. We run to the next room and inhale digestive cookies to mask our growing hysteria. Make it to a secluded corner. Collapse. We are going to get kicked out of this class. Guaranteed.

December 01, 2007

In my early twenties, I was a waitress at a fabulous bistro called Café Mika in Ottawa. I learned so many things at Mika: how to drag toothpicks through sugary glazes to make hearts; how to savour a bottle of high-end fumé blanc on which you’ve spent an entire night’s tips; how to harmonize Asian and western flavours into a fusion masterpiece; and how to make customers feel so special they won't only come back, they''ll tell a half-dozen other people about their experience.

Perhaps my favourite lesson at Mika was the art of writing food. Specifically, I was often charged with writing out the daily specials in cursive, as quickly as I could but not so fast that my script would lose form or elegance. Jude, Mika’s owner and chef extraordinaire, taught me how to compose mouth-watering menu descriptions. You knew you had hit it right when your stomach would grumble before you were finished writing.

There was no sitting around for the ingredients we listed: they had jobs to do, albeit pleasant ones. Tiger shrimp “nestled” into a heavenly sauce; filet mignon “basked” in an exotic reduction; and cilantro “mingled” with carrots and ginger. Just as important were adjectives: “crisped,” “smoked,” “seared,” ‘spiced,” “chipped,” “glazed” … The descriptions were specific and visual, with gorgeous syntax that foreshadowed how seriously the kitchen took the food they were about to prepare for you. At the same time, Jude taught me not to be pretentious—to let the words play with each other, just as the food would in the dishes she conjured up.

I’ve never come across a better menu writer than Jude, but the other night, I ate at a cute restaurant, Nyala (African), whose menu reminded me of how much fun I used to have writing food at Mika. Nyala’s menu—which is very silly—made me and my companions giggle, and had the effect of warming us up to the experience from the get-go. The staff kindly gave me a menu to take home when we left, so I’m going to excerpt a couple of the most charming entries.

Pinch me—PRAWNS?Okay, you twisted our arms, let us now take this dish to the absolute limits of the universe bound only by the heavens and the size of your plate … piri-piri sauce will sing and tender prawns will dance to create this hypnotic moment in time.

Tofu stewTender morsels of tofu dress up in costumes of red pepper sauce, ginger, cardamom and garlic before coming to life on the stage we call your table.

You can't be in a bad mood after you've read Nyala's menu. By contrast, I'm often left unmoved and undecided when I read so many other restaurants' menus that rely to boring effect on the word “with” (e.g., salmon with red pepper vinaigrette, curry with lentils and cheese, etc., etc.). Why shortchange your kitchen with dreary writing? Menus can be powerful teasers that put your customers in the right frame of mind to enjoy your restaurant.

We had a wonderful time at Nyala: the food is great and our server was incredible … warm, attentive, happy to help us choose, and knowledgeable.

Nyala also provided me with memories of Mika, a place—or rather an experience—that will resonate with me my whole life. There’s just no telling where magic will turn up, but when it does, you know it’s there. Mika was magic.

November 25, 2007

No matter what your expertise, be it math, science, or wordsmithing, there are sometimes bits of knowledge in your supposed field that will always be a little harder to retain than others. At least there are for me. For example, there are certain words I always have to look at hard before I know I’ve spelled them correctly, like “Michael” (I always want to put the e before the a), “weird,” (the classic “i before e except …” issue), “exercise” and “exacerbate” (I always suspect a c should join any x, for some reason).

In any case, I’ve decided to excerpt (there’s that c) four choice tidbits from a section I like to put into the style guides we do for clients: common usage and grammar issues. I love compiling this section, since it hammers in some applications I might otherwise have to look up. You may find you totally know these rules already, but in case they’re tricky for you…

As a noun, effect—synonymous with result or consequence—is used far more often than affect. For example:

One effect of the protest was new legislation.

The rarely used noun, affect, means emotional response or feeling. It’s used mainly in psychological or medical contexts.

Alternative vs. Alternate

As an adjective, both alternative and alternate can refer to a choice between two things or among more than two. For example:

We have to choose an alternate/alternative route.

Only alternate can mean every second one. For example:

They met on alternate Wednesdays.

When you need a noun to mean a choice between two options, use alternative. For example:

There are six alternatives to choose from.

Comprise, Consist, ComposeUse comprise,composed of, or consists of as per the examples below. As Fowler’s notes, “The special function of comprise is to introduce a list of the parts making up the whole that is its subject; that is, it means to consist of or to be composed of. All the parts compose the whole; the whole comprises all the parts.” Therefore:

The book comprises eight chapters.

Milk, honey, and nutmeg compose the sauce.

The sauce comprises milk, honey, and nutmeg.

The committee was composed of nine representatives.

The lesson consists of four sections.

Impact vs. InfluenceDo not use impact as a verb; use influence or affect instead. Both impact and influence are fine as nouns. For example:

The newspaper article will influence/affect the board’s decision.

We have felt the impact of the budget cuts.

She wielded her influence in the courtroom.

Writer, editor, and cartoonist Sarah Leavitt covers some more excellent grammar and usage conundrums (e.g., I or me) in her editing and copywriting category.

November 18, 2007

Everyone has them. Three to five meals or dishes they remember as the best of their lives. Without doubt, I savoured my most memorable meal sitting on a sidewalk curb in Rome with my dad and brother when I was about eight years old. We had been touring the city for hours and were absolutely famished. A little deli provided our salvation: marinated artichoke and tuna panini sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. I'll never forget sitting on that curb, the sun beating down upon us, enjoying each bite as if it were our last.

I have never replicated that sandwich, despite many attempts. However, I have discovered two other store-bought sandwiches within the last little while that have rocked my world.

Sandwich #1: The humble vegetarian Ingredients: Untoasted multigrain; a thin spread of dijon mixed with mayo; greens of some sort (I think butter lettuce); mild cheddar cheese; avocado; cucumber; red onion; and tomato sprinkled with salt and pepper.Location: Finch's Tea and Coffee House (pictured at top)Reason for love-on: Fresh, fresh ingredients; a sandwich maker who took care and time with the assembly (I watched); a clean-looking deli area; a cute, funky dining space; and fun friends who put up with my repeated exclamations of ecstasy.

Sandwich #2: The simplest tunaIngredients: Untoasted whole wheat; a thin layer of iceberg lettuce (one per side of bread); and a perfect mixture of what I think was just tuna and mayo.Location:Phoscao CafeReason for love-on: Best use of iceberg lettuce EVER; ample but not unwieldy amount of tuna filling; soft yet firm bread; lovely owners who put 110% into everything they do.

Now, I could try to make these sandwiches myself. I think I could come close, but not all the way there. So I won't do it. There is something magical about these sandwiches as they are made from these two shops, and I don't want to tinker.

Still, there are lessons I will steal from my two special sandwich experiences:

Truly amazing food is made with love. More on that in posts to come.

Iceberg lettuce is perfect sandwich liner, especially for sandwiches with moist filling (it keeps the bread tender rather than soggy).

If you have just-baked bread, don't toast it for sandwiches.

Sometimes moderation is a good motto for what goes between your two slices. I have had a few mouth-watering full-to-bursting sandwiches, but often times they're just intimidating and messy.

Fresh makes the difference, every time.

Does anyone have a sandwich secret to share? An amazing meal to recount? Would love to hear from you on these most important topics.

p.s. Thanks, Monique, for introducing me to Finch's (we have to go back soon!). Both Finch's and Phoscao are must-tries.